


Dear Master Baggins

by sophoklesworld



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Like, Minimally, Plot Twists, ish, it's a heavy read i guess, it's not even really that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 05:07:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18203945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophoklesworld/pseuds/sophoklesworld
Summary: A letter to Frodo Baggins.It starts slowly, the fear seeping into the dead of night, bleeding into the day and eventually blanketing every single moment of your life. The fear of what is growing in the East, the fear of what will find its way back to Gondor.





	Dear Master Baggins

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt was basically: "Create a Ranger, write about his childhood and life."  
> This got out of hand.
> 
> Enjoy!

Frodo looked at the letter in his hands in surprise. He didn’t receive very many letters, especially by strangers. Usually, people just barged in through his front door, just like they had during Bilbo’s time in Bag End.

It looked like a normal letter, but it was large and heavy.

With curious fingers, he opened the letter and began to read.

 

***

 

Dear Master Baggins,

 

You know the moment when you realize, you’re well and truly fucked?

Like, everything is great. Everything is well. A nice cottage to call home, in a tiny village, surrounded by forests with their mysterious sounds and burbling creeks. A large family, consisting of parents, aunts and uncles that care for you, cousins and siblings that play with you.

 

And then, suddenly — suddenly there’s _rumors_. At first you don’t care, you brush them off. Because they’re just that — rumors. Because you’re having fun. You’re hunting with your cousin, making a game out of it. Everything is still the same. Everyone is still there, except for Strider, who left a while back, which isn’t really something to worry about — he appears and leaves as he pleases. He is a loner. Considered peculiar by the rest of your people. Then again, he _did_ grow up in Rivendell. So yeah, nothing has changed much.

 

Except.

 

Except the rumors don’t stop. Everyone visiting your tiny village has heard of them, spreads new ones and spurs the old ones.

It starts slowly, the fear seeping into the dead of night, bleeding into the day and eventually blanketing every single moment of your life. The fear of what is growing in the East, the fear of what will find its way back to Gondor. To the place you call your home. If you weren’t already planning on joining your father’s small group of Rangers — _now_ , you wouldn’t see any other option. You start to train, along with your cousins, your younger siblings who shouldn’t even know about the blood and pain and the reality of the old Myth of the East, yet. You train, and you wait. Wait for the price of war. For dark shadows, empty screams, hollow eyes. For fire, smoldering, leaving the stench of burned flesh. Wait for a morning that will never come. Wait for the world to end, without even knowing if you will live to see it.

 

The moment when it really hits you, that you’re fucked, though? It’s the moment The Darkness rushes over you. A shadow of unimaginable horrors. A shadow that brings a promise with it, of death, of anguish and fear. The shadow of a creature that, by all means, should not exist. A creature you instinctively _know_ , even though you’ve never seen it before.

But you do. You _know_ this creature. It haunts your waking hours and nightmare-plagued sleep. And now it is here. Above you, arriving without a sound, even as dark leathery wings push against the air with a soft thumping noise that is more a feeling than anything else. They bring a feeling of despair and utter isolation with them, as they sail across your head.

 

People around you are stunned into silence and scramble in fear. You do, too. What else is there left to do. As much as you trained. There is _nothing_ , no training in any place on Middle Earth, that could have prepared you for _this_. It’s not just a losing battle, it’s a worthless fight to pick. Maybe not worthless — nothing is worthless if it is colored by passion. And what greater reason to let passion color something than the people in your heart. Still, it’s a fight you don’t choose freely.

 

And even as all hope seems lost, the creature passes over your head one last time and keeps going South. But not before screaming out with a screeching, painful sounding voice. The voice echoes through your head, reverberates in your bones and leaves you shaking. You, like every other person in the village, are shocked, don’t dare to leave your cover, don’t dare to hope, trust, that the creature is gone, will stay gone.

 

What separates you from everyone else though, is the fact that everyone is looking _at_ you. Looking at you, with worried eyes, with stunned and scared and confused eyes.

 

And suddenly, suddenly there is a shift and it’s accusing eyes.

 

As if it is your fault. As if you have _any idea_ why this is happening. You’re the center of attention. It’s the worst kind of attention. You would say "you don’t know why". But that’s not true. You know _why_. You know exactly why they look at you like this. If you were in their shoes, you would do the same. By Elendil, for a moment there, you almost _did_ blame yourself. You stand there, not understanding why this happens. But this, your village, your _people_ rounding on you.

 

This is the moment you realize you are well and truly fucked.

 

You can see it in their eyes. They thought they knew you. They think they did. They don’t know they still do.

 

You are not in the habit to mask your feelings in front of your people and you know, there is fear on your face. To them it must look like guilt, fear of being found. To you — to you it is the fear of what they will inevitably decide to do with you, for _this_. For what they _think_ they see. For what they _think_ you did. You are scared, because you know that this fear in them — ignited by the horrors of this world passing over their heads —, this fear has now ripped apart every fiber of trust, broken every promise, cut through every ounce of belief these people had in you. And in this moment, you are utterly alone. And you will be slaughtered, or worse. Given over to the Dark Lord in his Dark Tower. All this pain you’ll be put through, all the tears and fear and defeat, you know is coming.

 

_Just because a Nazgûl screamed your name_. And you don’t know why. You don’t know _how_. How they knew your name. Why they pressed it out with their shaky breath and cold voice. You just know it happened.

 

It is odd. You seem to stop thinking. You feel your own family and friends tug at you. Take you to the cell they confine quarantined people in.

You don’t resist. You don’t talk. You don’t know what to say. You cannot explain. Even when, eventually, they come back and ask you to. There is nothing you could say, that would make this situation better. Would make them understand. You don’t even understand yourself.

 

Instead, you stay in the small, windowless room. It could be days, it could be weeks. You cannot tell. You barely get visitors. Sometimes, your siblings sneak in. They tell you about increased patrols, how barely anyone gets any sleep. They don’t ask if you did what you are accused of — not that anyone really knows what to accuse you of, to begin with. They don’t ask but you see their distrust in their eyes. You don’t say you didn’t do anything, that you don’t know what is going on. What even is the point. The creature knew your name. There is no denying that.

 

Another time, your mother comes in. Her voice is small when she says it was discussed whether to send you to Minas Tirith or the Black Gate. You feel dizzy at the thought but you don’t know what to say to this. You are glad your father and his men are still in the wild, glad he would not see this, hear this.

There is no return of the horrors. The village decides to let you stay. Lets you go home, even though, you are confined to your rooms and are under constant supervision. At least you get to feel the sun on your face again and breathe fresh air. You still don’t know what happened. So you stay in your room, knowing your guards are some of the best Rangers there are. It won’t do, if they hold a grudge against you, additionally to their distrust.

 

Weeks pass. You don’t have much to do, so you watch the people. They are still on edge. There is a hurriedness to them that hasn’t been there before, and they have dark rings lining their eyes. The rumors are still spreading.

 

There are new rumors now, of Strider, of a Council in Rivendell. You always wanted to visit Rivendell. Strider has told stories of breathtaking views, soft light and and tiny gusts of wind gently rustling colorful leaves. Now, all your hope to ever travel there starts to dissipate, maybe it’s blown along by the wind until it finally reaches Rivendell. Not yourself, but your hope.

Maybe Strider will catch your hope in Rivendell, catch it like a falling leaf. While you think about this, you start to think that maybe, maybe it is not just your hope to see Rivendell, that is leaving you. It feels like all the hope you ever possessed is bleeding from you.

 

The people on the streets are looking at their feet. Where there once has been laughter, playing children and singing, there are now downcast eyes, small nods while people pass each other hurriedly on their ways. It is a million little things that seem to have changed. Even the sun diminishes her visits and instead is hiding behind dark clouds, like she is sad, scared even, for the world.

 

The rumors change again. People here have a particular interest in what Strider does, you realize one day. You wonder if that is because he is a Ranger, because he’s different, because he makes for good topics of conversation. Maybe it is because of the rumors surrounding him. The rumors that spread hope, the rumors that make him out to be a long-lost heir to the throne. No matter the reason, in these times, rumors and information about Strider seem to fuel the people even more, especially because the rumors seem to be a mirror for the world.

 

Strider is traveling, they say. You hear them whisper about a Fellowship, leaving Rivendell. A Wizard. An Elf. A Dwarf. Strider. There are stories about the little folk involved, but your village never saw them. You don’t really care about them. You care about Strider, much like your village. Care about his heroic deeds, the hope his name is carrying with it, like a flame in the dark — not only spending light, but warmth. A blessing in its own right.

You start to wonder, though, about the little folk. Hobbits. Why would Strider be traveling with them?

 

Your people don’t tell you anything freely anymore. You lost your privileges the moment the dark-winged creature spit out your name. But you listen in, when people pass your window, when your family talks in the other room. Everyone seems to be more animated again, the hope bleeding back into their minds and hearts.

 

They whisper about the secrets of the Fellowship, about a treasure so important that the Witch King himself has left his dark realms. So important, no one even knows what it is. What they are doing. You start to wonder why your people even do know. Maybe because they are Rangers at heart, Rangers in the wild. Maybe they stumbled over Strider.

 

One day, you hear a name and wonder who it belongs to — "Underhill". It rings with a familiarity. Something out of an old story but you cannot place it.

 

Even though the hope in your people’s hearts lightens their steps and softens their eyes towards you, the clouds above are building up. The darkness of the night is barely pushed away anymore during the day. You feel an uneasiness, and it is mirrored in your mother’s eyes. It turns the people around you into desperate and suspicious versions of their selves again, more distrusting of you than they were already.

 

They start to talk to you again. But it’s not nice. They ask why you did _this_. You don’t even know what _this_ is. You don’t say that, because you are sure, the punishment for your alleged "dishonesty" would be worse than if you say nothing at all. You are sure, the only reason why they don’t pick up tools, don’t make you talk with force, is because you were, once, one of them and because they hold you father in high regard.

 

You let their words drum in your ears, pull back into yourself as much as you push against the constant thundering onslaught of accusations.

 

It is weeks. Your people are getting more desperate in their attempts to make you talk and in the measures they take.

 

Your father comes back. He bears stories. He is angry, doesn’t know what happened here. You are in your room — you were not put back into the windowless cells, a mercy, but a small comfort in a world where the sky is as dark through the day as it is at night. Your father enters the room, looks at you in disappointment, but he does not regard you with the same distrust that everyone else plasters on their faces.

He is calm. His eyes hold yours when he tells you to explain. But then his eyes travel over your face, your thin body, see the dark marks your face from the last time a Ranger came into your room. And his eyes go dark with anger. Anger that is _for you_ , not against you. It’s refreshing, sparks a hope in you, you thought long lost. It makes your blood sing through your veins, the warmth of it a balm for your heart. You never thought you needed protection, you never wanted it, especially not here. But you’re glad for it, anyway. It means more than you would have ever expected.

  
You can see that it takes a lot for your father to sit down and listen to you, instead of brushing out of the room, hunting down the poor soul that laid their finger on you in that exact moment.

But he does. He sits. Again, he tells you to explain, in a surprisingly calm voice.

You talk. Your voice rasps because you haven’t used it in days. The Rangers have kept your mother and siblings away, and who else would you talk to, with your cousins gone into the world.

 

Your mouth is dry but you ignore it. You tell him about the rumors and the winged horror. You tell him how the creature spoke your name but rushed away again, without another glance.

You tell him, you have never seen the horrors before, you haven’t even spoken to anyone outside this town in years, and no travelers since your father had left. You spare yourself the details of confinement. Your father would know of the procedures. He’s looking at you and he sees, understands.

 

For the amount of time that has passed since the creature’s visit, there are surprisingly few words for you to actually say. When you subside, you don’t look at your father. You don’t want to see the distrust that will inevitably have spread to his eyes.

 

Suddenly, he stands. Instead of leaving, like you expect, though, he comes up to you, takes your chin in his hand and lifts your face.

There is no distrust in his eyes and you feel like crying.

 

When he tells you to come along, you start to worry. You haven’t left your room in weeks. He proceeds to walk outside and you are left to stumble along.

 

When you make your way onto the front porch, and come to a halt next to your father, suddenly, a blinding light breaks from the heavens’ as the sun shines through, for the first time in days, and lights up the street around you.

 

A cluster of people has started to collect in the street below. Certainly attracted by the return of your father and his men.

 

The villagers eye your father and you warily. There is a momentary silence, before a murmur begins.

 

The people are more interested in you than in the sun, that is slowly breaking through the clouds, leaving larger and larger patches of the earth trenched in bright colors again. The warmth on your face is welcome and a distraction from the undivided attention of your people. You don’t listen to their complaints and worries, their ideas and demands. If they want you gone, they can have you gone, as long as you get to enjoy the sun on your skin. It is warming your aching muscles, sending healing jolts through the blue prints on your face and arms.

 

But then your father starts to talk and you are pulled in. He’s always had a talent for stories.

And the story he tells now. It is beyond everything you ever could have imagined.

 

It starts with Strider, as so many of his stories do. It ends with a war, several battles, won, almost lost and hope that shall not fail. He talks about Gondor, about Minas Tirith, the Halfling he met. The aftermath of the final battle. The way the people of Rohan and Gondor saddled up to ride up to the Black Gate, about the small force of people that held stedfast and made their way there, only to hold on to hope a little longer. And how he had _planned_ to ride along. To hold his head high and fight for what he loved. To his last breath. How someone had sent for him, to tell him that his son, his legacy, the new generation of Ranger, was trialed for _treason_. How he came back here, just to find his son locked in his room, only a fleshy shell of what he used to be, a shadow of himself.

 

The skin on your back tickles at the anger in his voice. Because again, it is _for_ you.

 

The clouds are getting sparser with every passing heartbeat and your father points heavenwards, tells the people that this, this is what he wanted to fight for, to stand for. What he taught his son to stand and fight for.

 

You feel like there is something coming, something important, like he is working towards the solution of all your problems, of all _this_.

 

When it comes, it is unexpected. Because it rolls around with a tremor passing through the earth, a screeching, feral and scared, orkish wail from the forests that is cut off, before your father speaks into the utter silence and sudden stillness.

 

'Just now', your father says, his voice calm, 'just now, the Dark Lord in his Dark Tower was destroyed. The return of the sun, the death of the Ork, the return of _life_ to every part of this world is proof of this. The Halfling I met, he told me about his friend. _Frodo Baggins_ , who was on his way to destroy the one ring, to destroy the Dark Lord. That was the reason, the army made their way to the Black Gate. To take Sauron’s eye off of a small Hobbit with the name Frodo Baggins.’

 

His voice is ringing in your ears and you’re bereft of your breath, the air around you seems to shimmer with understanding, mirrored in everyones’ eyes.

Understanding that is morphing to guilt.

 

Someone breathes an apology. As if an apology could undo months of solitude and false accusations. But can you blame them? They didn’t know. You didn’t know.

 

Now you do. Now they do. Now all of you know. Know that the only reason you were in this situation at all, is a Halfling you never met.

An unfortunate coincident. Not your fathers fault, not your mothers fault.

 

 

This was the moment, I knew, I wasn’t the reason for anything wrong in this world — even though, I should have known before, I knew of the things I did not do.

 

Suddenly, the name 'Underhill’ came to my mind again. Underhill. It was a name my great grandfather used to tell me about. A person that was actually named 'Baggins'. Using the name Underhill on great adventures, where he was said to have slain dragons and robbed the dwarves of their treasures.

 

It’s a name that colored all my childhood stories. Now, it feels like it has been _tainting_ every memory. Because it came to be a name inherently mine. And with it, all my problems have begun.

  
I am sending this letter, to let you know about the suffering you have caused, dearest Master Baggins, because of your adventures, because you couldn’t just stick to the good Hobbit-way of enjoying your life in the Shire, like you were supposed to.

 

I spared you of quite some details of my suffering, as I am grateful to your deeds, to your role in the fall of the Dark One — even though, in quite honestly, I am convinced you are involved in his sudden rise, to begin with.

 

  
Fuck you very much,

Yours truly,

Baggins Baldoìn

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! (if you want me to add any relevant tags, just ask!)


End file.
